Group Update from India

Posted Dec 04, 2013

Talya Nevins

Language Study

‘Mujhe aur chavel nahi chahiye!’ (I do not need more rice!). The fact that six weeks ago we struggled over this crucial phrase seems unthinkable. Our communications and relationships with others around us define the way we experience the world. This simple reality is easy to take for granted in a place where commonalities are obvious and conversation flows naturally. However, these past six weeks in the foothills of the Himalayas quickly taught us that connecting to and understanding ourselves within a new environment is vastly more challenging without language skills. Along with the mountainous landscapes and clear starry nights of our first six weeks in the North-Indian state of Uttarakhand came all the elements of an initial adjustment: group bonding, upset stomachs, and the debilitating frustration of being limited to the words ‘pani’ (water), ‘thik-hai’ (okay), and ‘gunda’ (hooligan).

When we arrive in Benares this week, we will no longer ask our Hindi teacher ‘is that curlique really a necessary part of the letter?’ (the answer is always yes) or struggle to ask for ‘chai chinni ke bina’ (tea without sugar- a concept that does not translate even when the language does). Our new home-stay families will not see us helpless to explain where we come from or how many siblings we have. It is almost a shame that our initiation to Benares won’t include the humiliation of mispronouncing ubiquitous words like ‘acchaa’ (good, really, or almost anything else) or ‘dhanyavad’ (thank you) because with six weeks of perspective, the awkwardness of these moments seems endearing and the discomfort stands out as an essential component of our foundation for the year to come.

As we move from mountains to rickshaws, from service and home-stays in groups to individual placements, and from squat toilets to more squat toilets, this foundation feels strong. We control our experiences through language, so with our growing competence in Hindi comes a growing confidence in our ability to relate to and communicate with the people we meet as we approach seven months in Benares.

We started out at the bottom of a mountain not too unlike the one on which Reetha village is perched, learning Devanagri script. The beads of sweat that formed as we struggled to pronounce the aspirated retroflex ‘dha’ (it somehow sounds like a ‘ra’) bore comparison to those from carrying our heavy bags down the steep slope from the road to our new homes. As we grew more comfortable with basic verbs and nouns, sitting with Bina-ji, the matriarch of the home where the four girls stayed together, became a precious time each evening to share the events of the day. Finally catching an unobstructed view of Himalayan peaks at sunrise during a weekend excursion stands out in unforgettable-ness matched only by the heartwarming feeling of successfully understanding Bina-ji’s assertion that ‘jab tum log janti ho tab mujhe akela hota hai’ (When you go, I am lonely).

Almost immediately upon our arrival in India we began daily Hindi lessons. We spend an hour and a half each day delving into the dramatic lives of Pratap and Sangita, our friends from Rupert Snell’s Teach Yourself Hindi, and reciting their dialogues. We take tests every Friday and pride ourselves on the speed with which we manage to tackle new grammatical constructions, memorize vocabulary and, most importantly, decipher restaurant menus. Although these successes do indicate progress in our textbook-knowledge of Hindi, the moments that truly stand out as markers of our adjustment are the human interactions.

The noteworthy difference between our group now and our group six weeks ago is not simply that we have the vocabulary to ask for certain variations of daal and subji (lentils and vegetables), but that we know which are our favorites and where to get them. It is not that we have learned to sound out road signs, but that we know the difference between the villages whose names we read. Yes, we have learned the affectionate and formal terms for various family members; but more importantly, we now have people to use them with.

We are far from proficient in Hindi. There is surely a multitude of awkward and triumphant moments left to come. However, these first six weeks have taught us that a willingness to risk our pride and laugh about these moments will continue to attest to our investment in language immersion, not just language study. Our challenges and successes in Hindi class will continue to develop in line with the challenges and successes of engaging with and joining in life in our new communities.

Zach Feig

Little Adventures

My first adventure was not stepping on the plane to India. It was not arriving amidst the crowded hubbub of Delhi. Nor was it traveling northward by train to a land where the earth folds up and reaches into the sky. No, my first adventure happened in my own backyard, when Banu threw my Frisbee out over the edge. It was an accident. But as the yellow disk, glinting slightly in the last moments of dusky light, sailed out past the stone wall, I couldn’t help but curse “phooey” under my breath.

“Alright Banu, let’s go get it” I groaned. The five year old stared back blankly. My homestay brother, while adept in both Hindi and Kumauni, knew only about six words in English. Quickly I sifted through my limited Hindi vocabulary for a phrase he might understand. All I could come up with was two different salutations, three ways to explain that I was bad at Hindi, and four vegetable names. After a good deal of thought, I was able to put together a single cohesive … word. “Niche”(down) I said pointing in the vague in the direction my feet. Then I turned and walked to the edge to begin my lonely quest down the mountainside after the flying disc. Behind me Banu scampered off. So much for help, or even company.

Then the pitter patter of his feet paused. I turned around to see the kid sliding his feet into a tiny pair of pale green flip-flops grinning from ear to ear, eyes alight with excitement. I paused and Banu scurried to catch up. As we picked our way down the slope together, getting stung by nettles and slipping on what I can only hope was mud, I realized that I was finally embarking on a true adventure.

What makes an adventure an adventure is not its magnitude, not its sheer scope, or how impressive it sounds over chai. Traveling halfway around the world doesn’t guarantee an adventure, just a trip. An adventure is something else. It is seeing a backyard stroll as a quest. It is starting out with keenly felt excitement, running shiny-eyed after pale green flip-flops. It is getting ankle deep in cow poop, but calling it mud. Adventures are about style not size and so I’ve begun to think of my time in India as a series of little adventures, a series of Little Bites and Small Steps.

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In Nathwakhan I ate momos from a street vendor. As the doughy white dumplings rose dripping and wreathed in steam from boiling water, my stomach tensed in anticipation. This would be my first meal in India that had not received a preliminary screening from a panel of cautious instructors. It was a risk, and as I took my first bite of the hot sauce drenched concoction, I felt the spicy burn of the unknown. Little Bites.

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In Lucknow I had yet another pedestrian adventure. I crossed the street, the kind of street my mother always warned me about. Cars and bikes, rickshaws and motorcycles. 4 lanes of speeding vehicles, but with enough traffic to fill twice as many. Here painted lane lines mean nothing. Cars snuggle up to each other like overzealous lovers. Green and yellow rickshaws keen like angry parakeets. Motorcycles and bikes dive and weave through impossibly small gaps in traffic. Yet I strode confidently through it all. Small Steps.

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I came to India to be adventurous, but I’m beginning to understand that those adventures will not be riding elephants and yaks, or scaling frozen mountains, or trekking through jungles in search of tigers. No, my adventures may be as mundane as eating a momo or crossing a street. They may be as simple as walking into a shop and talking to its owner, or getting lost on my walk home. But that’s okay because in a land where everything seems new, the most profound experiences are often mundane and nearly all mundane experiences are at the very least memorable. So for as long as I can manage, I’ll look at the world through eyes that light up over lost Frisbees, that see an opportunity in an accident, and that can spot the wondrous within the conventional.

Sammy Kunitz-Levy

Building a Life

“Miss… your family?” Shanti-ji Raikwal cocks her head to the side after her question, peering at me through deep, inquisitive eyes. Her face is wrinkled with smile lines and continual lip pursing; both features are results of heading a household (now of 12 people spanning three generations) for a long, long time. She is my host amma, or grandmother. I pause, considering her question. I am seated on a worn rug on a wooden floor in a small room – the “living room” of the house. Around me are eight others, sitting scattered across the space. I nod slowly. “Han-ji, han-ji,” I say, deliberating. “Yes, yes.” I pause again. “Lekin… dusra parivar.” My hand sweeps around the room in a circular motion as I try to convey the inclusiveness of my broken Hindi phrase, “But… second family.” Hemu, the fourth of Shanti-ji’s five sons, all in their 20s and 30s, walks up to me some 20 minutes later. “My mother, very happy tonight,” he nods to me. “Meh bhi,” I respond. “Me too.”

Family. The word, I have discovered from the mere month and a half I have spent in Kumaun, is underused. I imagined that in coming to India I would be leaving friends, family, culture, and my city behind in the States, to cite just a few. However, I hardly expected the opportunity that I have had to completely integrate myself into the loving families that greeted me. Over the past six weeks in Uttarakhand, I met families in the shape of work communities like CHIRAG, households like the Raikwals, and tight knit groups, of which the most obvious to me is the BYP India 5.0 team (I’ve only know them for six weeks?). In CHIRAG, the NGO we worked with in Uttarakhand, a walk outside, around the upper level of the structure, would bring conversations through open windows, and a treasure of stories from the staff. Getting to know about the lives and families of the CHIRAG kitchen guys, like the always smiling Basand and Manu, was equally rewarding. But it has not stopped in Uttarakhand. Banaras has also presented these incredible opportunities. Both at NIRMAN, the school where I am teaching, and at my host home, the open-armed acceptance and care is enveloping. Whether my students are telling me about their lives, hobbies, and aspirations or my didi (homestay sister) is telling me that she has my back if I am in trouble, the level of connection to families and communities is ever powerful in this city.

The chance to bond and integrate into families clearly and consistently presented itself to me, and I have tried to take advantage of it. But the process hasn’t been effortless, nor have I always met the challenge. In each instance, consciousness, effort, and a willingness to look silly (which, I might add, are not so easily summoned) are necessary to fully notice and capitalize on the chances to incorporate myself into a group. Yet, opportunities abound here; nearly every community I’ve met has been welcoming, supportive, and thoughtful.

Since the beginning of the Bridge Year Program, I have thought often about my overall goals. Inextricable from my nascent aspirations were accomplishment-oriented tasks: to trek a Himalayan peak, to fearlessly handle spicy chilies, to bike through and navigate Banaras. These awesome feats are still of interest to me – how could they not be? But my developing objectives have begun to reflect the discoveries I made while living through the past six hectic weeks, and Banaras beyond. Now that I see the family all around me, my goals are becoming increasingly personal; in essence, they have started to center around these omnipresent and unique families.

William Hinthorn

How’s India?

During our initial introduction to India, Zach and I were assigned with finding a snack for the group to hold us over for the upcoming train ride. After circumnavigating a trash heap and passing a barber working busily by the gutter of the street, we found a dilapidated shop haphazardly constructed of scraps and concrete in one of the informal barrios of Delhi. Ducking under a net of CHIPS packages hanging from the Tata corrugated steel awning, I looked back into the dim corners of the store to see shelves lined with dust-covered packages of all colors. Alongside soaps, spices, gardening equipment, and all the other wares of this tiny general store were dozens of biscuits and snack foods with enigmatic flavors such as “Magic Masala” and “Hyderabadi Hungama.” Like a kid in a candy store, I reached for the brightest packet of cookies. Novelties.10 packs. I set the elaichi flavored biscuits on the counter and pulled out the stipend money. As the owner counted the bills he smiled and asked, “So how you find India?”

It’s the expected first question to be posed by family and friends curious to know about my time in the subcontinent. That I had anticipated. But when this question is posed by strangers on the street, by inquisitive shop owners, and coworkers, I am stymied. How can my list of surface impressions encompass a people and place so vibrant and new? Stuck on the wall with just a toe in the water, I feel obligated to defer reflection until sometime when perhaps it may touch the profundity of this nation. What is life like as a foreigner in India? In Bharat?

Uttarakhand is considered to be the “Land of the Gods,” the Mt. Olympus of the East. In Hindu traditions the annual celebration of Navratri marks 9 nights in which the goddess Devi leaves her home in the Himalayas to sojourn abroad and visit the people in her care. As the feminine energy or dynamic arm of Shiv, the creator and destroyer, she is responsible for sustaining this age. She is welcomed into the home as a guest and worshiped daily through Puja or ritual prayer which honors her in her 10 aspects and at different stages in her life. Throughout this celebration the devotee abstains from the common heavily spiced diet and chooses to live off fruit and milk, revered substances that are meant to sustain while removing any desire for food. With the body satisfied and the mind controlled, total attention may be paid to the guest and to being enlightened through Darshan, or the connection with the divine. The event culminates with Dishaira which is the time when all of the constructions of the goddess are destroyed, released to the river or sent by fire from this world, released into the ether. This destruction is not met by sorrow or longing, for though she may retreat to her Himalayan peaks, she is destined to return. Here, “the guest is god,” and sharing our lodging for a time with the goddess has shown that though we strive to integrate and connect, the sandals we must fill are colossal.

One chilly evening, seven new faces strolled into Reetha village and life ground to a halt. The kids playing volleyball paused in their game and stared. The fence weavers ceased work. Shopkeepers stepped out for a better view, and from a trio of elders lounging around a chaiwalla cast their gaze over us from behind hoary mustaches. An unnatural silence settled in as we lowered our packs to look around at blank expressions. Outsiders.

One month later, after living with the families, teaching at the schools, and playing volleyball with the young men who had just finished work, we again stood at the maidon (field). We were three American boys laden tortoise-like with our luggage, but now familiar faces poked out of doorways to wave goodbye. Five young children buzzed around our legs, clinging to our hands and screaming “Dada, Dada!” Three boys we had met in one of our village’s volleyball matches hopped off a Royal Enfield Bullet and greeted us, and from the chaiwalla’s shop, an elder, after a long meditative gaze, raised his hand to his heart in recognition.

So how is India? We are more than willing to spin our stories and tell of all that we’ve seen. Guests for a short while yet connected for a lifetime, as we drove down the broken road in the jeep that day, I pulled out a note that my little homestay sister, Yukti, had slipped in my pocket. “I will miss you Dada Will. Thank you for everything you taught me and for becoming a part of my family.” As I read the Nagari script scrawled across that dusty scrap of notebook paper, my thoughts turned to the Himalayas. The guest is god. Though my stay in Kumaon was regrettably brief and my shramdan, or service, pales in comparison to the dynamism of Devi, on that last day, I struggled to justify how I could leave. Binaji gestured that she would be sad that I was going then in a mixture of Hindi and English said that I would return, not because of any service or program but because it simply would be. I know that I won’t be able to leave my life every year to visit and experience the vivacity of this family, to be welcomed like Devi on leave from the mountains, but I am comforted by the warmth that I discovered where I initially had only noticed probing stares. A month here, or even seven, is not enough to take away the brand of being a foreigner.

Living here, I am a novelty, lost in a dusty corner trying to gain a foothold of understanding in a dynamic community. Inundated by the indescribable, life becomes surreal.

So how’s India?

Your guess is as good as mine.

Maddy Pauchet

Outside the Reetha village primary school, sixty pairs of cappale are lined up in the playground. Children remove their shoes before piling elbow-to-elbow into the classroom. The walls are adorned with waterlogged posters made by previous volunteers; colors of the rainbow, body parts and alphabet charts are faded of their content. On this first day, we are greeted by two women who point to the charts: “You can use these. And also teach them poems.” And with that introduction, they retreat into a closed-door office. Alissa, Talya and I look at each other. What? Aren’t we just observing today? What curriculum do we follow? How do we start?

The children, ages ranging from barely-done toddling to lanky ten year-olds, had been mute in the presence of the teachers. Three boys in the back now have each other in a headlock. A group of older-looking girls is giggling loudly by the window – and children have circled around each one of us, stroking our hands, tugging at our hair, pulling on our dupattas. We don’t know how to do this. We don’t know enough Hindi to ask them to please stop hitting each other listen up kids and you in the third row why are you crying? please let go of my salwar-leg now this is making me incredibly uncomfortable namastenamaste–

In a panic, we tear ourselves free and huddle at the head of the classroom. I venture a “mera naam…” but it is drowned out in the brouhaha of kids exchanging one-rupee candies, braiding each other’s hair and clamoring at our knees for handshakes.

A teacher walks back in, dragging a few children who had escaped to the playground by their ears. The classroom falls silent as she makes her way to the back, pulls two boys off each other and wallops them with a stick with cries of “chup, chup! quiet, quiet!”.

As we walked down the steps of the Reetha school that first day, the month we had committed to working there loomed ahead. We hung our heads and went hunting for soap to scrub the classroom’s grime off our hands. What was our worth to the school when keeping a class engaged for a full thirty seconds was beyond our capability? Would every day there be quite as tragic? In lieu of answering these questions, we resolved to replace the charts – new rainbows and new days-of-the-week would at least spruce up the room.

*******

The children are shouting out a broken, tuneless version of the chorus to Jingle Bells. Laxita’s little voice rings out high and clear as she articulates “in a one-horse open sleigh”, the decidedly impractical rhyme that throws most of the other kids off. Competing for attention, Dipak sings louder and louder. Standing on tiptoes to see above the heads of the taller children, he is always the first to call out the answers when we play with color and shape flashcards – “green square! orange triangle!” In front of him, Kajal sways her hips from side-to-side. She loves to dance – her favorite song is the Hokey-Pokey which she executes with a grace that far surpasses that of her teachers. Though Ansit does not like to sing and stands apart, his gap-toothed grin befits the role of Pratap beautifully in the ten-line play “Pratap’s Hat”, a remarkable literary opus of which Talya and I claim the proud authorship. From the head of the classroom, I lead the class in an equally out-of-tune rendition of The Itsy Bitsy Little Spider. “Dusra? Ha. Macarena? Thik hai. Another? Yes. Macarena? Okay.” And with that encouragement the children are off in the most bizarre, deadpan version of the Macarena I have ever heard.

*******

In a month, I have gotten to know most of the sixty children. There’s the quiet one who looks like a cute bumblebee and refuses to speak. There’s Anita, who matches a red-and-white stripy sweater to her red government-issued uniform every day. There’s Vijay, who, though he fights often, listens when he feels his attention is valued. Though they may have learnt very little practical English, establishing individual relationships led to substantial progress. My contribution to the school went beyond the chart-making I had anticipated (though the classroom is now fully decked-out in Sharpie-drawings of Santa Claus, Pratap’s misadventures and a kurta-wearing man’s elbows, knees and toes). In the first week, I shifted my objective from imparting grammar to exchanging names. That switch, along with the realization that teaching English in six weeks was not a feat I would be able to accomplish, redefined my attitude toward the children and the way I approached my time in the classroom. The children, unsurprisingly, participate when they have fun. We traded Beyonce for Ramleela songs, (some) English for (some) Hindi, name for name, and respect for respect.

Alissa Lopez

When I was little, I imagined that turning 18 years old would make me “big” just like all those “big people” in my life – mom, dad, grandma, and grandpa pop. I would stare at these giants with wide eyes and slowly fall into an innocent daydream. What would I look like on the day I became a “giant?” Which friends would be with me on this special day? I made grand plans for my 18th birthday - my venture into "official bighood" - and carried them with me throughout my life. But despite having a wild imagination as a child, I never could have envisioned just how this day was to actually unfold - not ten years ago, not even last year. Turning 18 in India certainly is no predictable circumstance after all.

After performing a poorly executed version of ‘Cotton-Eyed-Joe” for the 80 girls of the Laxmi Ashram (an all girls school based upon a Ghandian educational model), I made my way to the back of the hall to find my seat. Mid-way, the surprising sound of one-hundred people singing “Happy Birthday” began to echo boisterously throughout the hall. This was just the eve before my birthday. Sure I felt thoroughly embarrassed by the attention that was showered my way, but also that moment brought me a taste of true bliss. I looked around the room and saw only genuine smiles. So overcome with emotion by this sight, I immediately thought "How did I get here?"

The morning of my actual birthday, my fellow BYP volunteers and I awoke bright and early to watch the sun rise over the snow-capped Himalaya Mountains of Uttarakhand, a northern Indian Pradesh. Moments later, we crammed our hefty trekking backpacks into two rugged jeep taxis and made our way through the picturesque plains of Northern India. Four hours (and one dosage of Dramamine to prevent car sickness) later, we had reached our quaintly situated home stay in a mountain village of Uttarkhand. Binaji, my host mother, greeted us with a tray of hot chai that was the perfect energy boost to reenergize after a long car ride. I grabbed my toasty chai cup with both hands and walked outside for fresh air. I sat down on a rock aside of our home stay family's two very large cows, looked out into the distance and gasped. So overcome with emotion by this sight, I immediately thought "How did I get here?"

Standing in between two lush valleys incited me to quickly realize just how far I was from home. Aware that those views would be considered once-in-a-lifetime by most, in that moment I perceived them as symbols for this once in a lifetime opportunity; Bridge Year.

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Perhaps one could say that twelve months ago I was somewhat oblivious to life’s eccentricities. At that time I certainly would not have predicted that I would be spending nine months in a time zone thirteen and a half hours ahead from the time back home. Before my eccentric journey here in India, my life was by no means insular. Still, I cannot overlook its distance—both literally and figuratively—from my new life. My time spent in India has been filled with opportunities to experiment and adjust; from trying my hand at grass cutting to attempting to create an effective strategy for shoveling cow-manure. As for showering, well I will just say it involves one large bucket to hold the water and one small bucket for pouring (glamorous, indeed).

Perhaps it is in the spirit of taking a bridge year to find myself thinking each day "How did I get here?" What did I do to deserve this experience of seeing so much that life has to offer? The answers to these ever-present questions lie in the living in the moment, in The Being Present. These next six months will of course prove to have their challenges, their highs and their lows, but by allowing life to take its course around me, I will find myself becoming a part of this world here in Banaras. Sure my senses are on overload trying to adjust to this densely populated city around me. I consider it, however, my good fortune to have this opportunity to spend the equivalent of a school year's time, committed to adapting to the moment and to reflecting on perplexing cultural encounters in this foreign land. Life is dynamic after all, so why not immerse myself wholeheartedly in Banaras, a city so diverse that it may very well be a microcosm of not just India, but also the entire human population?

I consider it reasonable that I did not anticipate where life would actually take me this year, the year of my 18th birthday. Before Bridge Year, I trained myself to micromanage my life on a tight schedule. Amidst the stress of academics, extracurricular activities, and social interactions, I often focused so much on the future that I lost sight of the splendor of the present. Perhaps because my life now is so different from what I envisioned it would be like, the journey I have embarked on seems all the more worthwhile. I am still learning to take comfort in the unknown, but - as Bridge Year has already shown me - the journey provides for the most reward. I continue evolving as a person each day because of my decision to be here. Spending a year in India may seem eccentric, but I prefer to consider it to be exactly where I am meant to be in my life right now.

Emma Latham

Phir Melenge

“Girls, I just wanted to let you know that Bina-Ji just called me and says that she misses all of you.” – Keith-Ji

Today we just left our homestays— left the confines of walls painted a blindingly-turquoise shade and plastered with “Smart Baby” posters, left the smoky-warmth of the kitchen where we would struggle to control the urge for “just one more chappati,” left the cricket-bat-sized cucumbers that hung from the trees. Today we left those indescribably nurturing moments— the mornings of groggy confusion when we awoke to our homestay grandmother, Bina-Ji, pommelling our door to give us morning chai. Moments of irrepressible fury when we realized that our little brother had eaten our secret chocolate hoard (3 Kit-Kat bars, 1 box of Dark Fantasies, 2 bars of Cadbury-Orange Peel). Those moments when we lost our breath, realizing that we were living within the mountains of India.

But more than that collection of memories, we left our family. We left Bina-ji— her petite, wiry frame enveloped in brilliant orange sari adorned with intricate flower motifs, forehead dotted with a red bindu— who hops into our beds when we are half asleep to watch Hindi soap-operas and nurtures us with special bowls of moong-dal when we are feeling sick. We left our Bina-Ji, who besides cutting grass, milking the cows, cleaning the house, sorting the wheat, and silently tending countless other household needs behind the scenes, is somehow there for us. She is always working, and always responding “nahi, nahi!” when we offer help.

We left Gaurav, our little hooligan of a brother, who had us swinging from complete exasperation to utter adoration as he countered an hour of pinching by snuggling in our laps during our Bollywood movie night. He would barge into our room, disregarding our noble attempts to read or study, and demand that we play, chase and tickle.

We left a family that could have just seen us as just another paycheck, an unavoidable annoyance; yet somehow, 10 hours after we left, they are calling us to say they miss us…

What strange land have I wandered into where people care this much about you? What strange land where- after we stole their living room, devoured all of their delicious pourri, and barely lifted a finger- we are missed. Bina-Ji had enough to do today— she was preforming puja for Navatri, her grandkids were coming to visit, her son was coming home for the holiday. She had her own life to deal with, so why is she calling us?

From what I have seen, India has a distinctive perspective on the significance of relationships. In India, a friend is more than someone you meet every month or two for coffee or message through a screen. A friend is someone you adopt into your life, that you call every Sunday to hear about his or her week. Friends demand devotion, commitment, and investment. Life is not simply about individuals, but about the ties between them.

So as I leave this new family and begin my new life in Benares with new relationships, friends and families, I have stopped saying goodbye and adopted “phir melenge”, (see you again). The people that I have left behind were not just stops upon a journey that is simply going forward, but are connections that are part of who I am today, and that I will continue to revisit throughout my life. I refuse to let my mischievous little brother fade into some romanticized, wilted anecdote I pull out when people ask about my time in India. So phir melenge Gaurav and Bina-Ji, I know I’ll be seeing you soon.